I’ve never had that much love for horses, though some, I note, are quite infatuated with the silly, smelly creatures. Whilst I am content to be drawn by them in a carriage, I generally avoid sitting astride them as the act demeans both parties and tempts providence. The best way to avoid falling off an ‘oss is not to get on it in the first place, just as the most efficient way to avoid being eaten by sharks is not to swim where they are. I have little sympathy, therefore, for those who complain about having fallen off horses or having been eaten by sharks; their misfortune is their own fault entirely.
    I have applied this simple rule to many things from my youth up and have found it infallible – until today - one version of it having been that the way to avoid losing money on a wager is not to wager, or, to put it another way: if you don’t play, you can’t lose.
    It being the closed season, masonically speaking, and Mrs. L. being away visiting friends in Wales, I find myself at a loose end in the evenings, so last night made my way to the Yorick Tavern in search of conviviality, and found it. No less than eight other brethren of the Stonic Lodge were present, all, like me, bored. The weather being warm I decided to down a few tankards of cool, cleansing ale and immediately felt the beneficial effect of same. One of the parties – the Lodge Treasurer, no less - suggested a sweepstake. A horse race was to be run on the Down at Epsom the following day, named for Lord Derby but arranged by somebody called Bunbury who, I am reliably informed, exerts much influence in these matters. There were to be nine runners, there were nine of us, we could all draw the name of an ‘oss from an ‘at and he who drew the winner would take all. I proposed that, alternatively, the winner might take half and the other half be donated to the Lodge’s charity fund. Brother Treasurer seconded and the proposition was carried unanimously by the brethren. I immediately felt better, for, in the (inevitable) event of my drawing a blind, three-legged donkey, I could at least console myself with the thought that fifty per cent of my folly would at least benefit some needy soul...
    The admirable Master Field, a young gentleman of the university and our newest member, was delegated to copy out the names of the runners whilst further refreshment was procured. Yorick ale is truly excellent. My spirits rose.
    I asked what the wager might be, assuming that a shilling would be more than sufficient, especially as Field was but a poor scholar - in every sense… To my horror, Brother Treasurer announced that it be a guinea!
    My spirits fell. I reminded my worthy brother of the fact that, whereas the Lodge has many members of rank and opulence, we also have some who, for whatever reason - and mentioning no names - are reduced to the lowest ebb of poverty and distress. I jerked my head meaningfully in the direction of the scribbling Brother Field, hoping that Brother Treasurer would take the hint. I hoped in vain.
    The names were put into the Master’s hat, held high, and drawn in order of seniority, Brother Treasurer collecting the stake money as the process progressed. Poor Field, having scrabbled for the last lot, had to take up his pen once more to write a promissory note for the cost of it. I gave Brother Treasurer a meaningful look, which he ignored, and then unfolded my own, crumpled slip to discover, written in a spidery little hand, the Earl of Derby’s own horse! As we left, I clapped the lad on the shoulder and told him, with a wink, that I would see him right.
    ‘Thank you, Sir, says he.’ ‘Don’t mention it, Brother,’ says I.
    Next morning, I lay abed late, the ale having caused me to rise three times before dawn, when I heard three distinct knocks at the door. I went to the window and looked down, to see Brother Field, in a very fine coat, looking up and doffing a very fine hat to me.
    Over lunch at the Yorick he confided to me that he had drawn Bunbury’s horse, Diomed, the hot favourite who had romped home the winner! “There!” said I, and, quoting the Bard of Avon once more, ‘All’s well that ends well!’ Field looked about the room conspiratorially, and then said ‘Can you keep a secret, Brother?’ ‘Naturally!’ I replied. ‘Well,’ quoth Field, ‘Diomed’s name was never in the hat, it was in my hand…’ I was shocked. ‘You have been very naughty,’ I hissed. ‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘But,’ I continued, ‘I shall not tell. Audi, Vide, Tace, and all that.’ Field looked greatly relieved. ‘I knew that I could rely on you, so here’s your guinea back, and lunch is on me.’ I am not easily bought, but a guinea’s a guinea. I was carried home. I don’t recall the hour.
    Note: No Saint’s feast is celebrated today. This may be due to the fact that the new Pope, Pius VI, hasn’t got round to creating any new ones yet.